Sublime

grok

She knew, from the way they looked at her, that this had been a mistake. They did not want to cry. But she felt that the little line of white, somewhat ridged with smoked purple, and all that cream-shot saffron, would never drift across any western sky except that in back of this house. The rain would drum with as sweet a dullness nowhere but here.

On the flight back to L.A. I sit next to an old man who keeps drinking Bloody Marys and mumbling to himself. As the plane makes its descent he asks me if this is my first time in L.A. and I say “Yeah” and the man nods and I put the headset back on and listen to Joan Jett and the Blackhearts sing “Do You Wanna Touch Me?” and tense up as the plane br

Henderson lost, which meant that Henderson had to call Martin Waggoner’s father in Okeechobee and break the sad news. While Henderson called, Hoke went downstairs to the station cafeteria and got two cups of coffee in Styrofoam cups. He drank his in the cafeteria and brought the other cup, now barely warm, back upstairs to Henderson. Henderson took

with my own mother and my grandmother and my childhood best friend, Euna, who drowned in the lake by her cousin’s house. There are no ghosts, but up here”—she gestured toward her head—“it’s a haunted house.”

John wandered into the room, wearing a blue bathrobe. “I got the Saturday jits,” he said. “I got anxiety crawling over me. Do you have any coke?” She went to the kitchen to get him a Coca Cola. “Joan never writes about a place that’s not hot,” he said. “The day she writes about a Boston winter will be the day it’s all over.”